


All the Pleasures Prove

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Clothing Kink, Desire, Epiphanies, Exhibitionism, Imagination, Just Lots of Inappropriate Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, No Sex, Porn, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Shirtless, Size Kink, Sleepovers, Smut, Stiles the Unapologetic Size Queen, Sweatpants, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek, shirtless and in sweatpants. Stiles, desperate and horny. That’s about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Pleasures Prove

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this poem](http://www.bartleby.com/106/5.html).

* * *

 

At first, Stiles has no clue that an impromptu slumber party will change his life. He has to stay overnight at Derek’s loft because the pack has gotten together to strategize, and they wind up talking so late into the night that they decide to sleep over. It’s not like they can go home. The clock’s struck two a.m. and it isn’t a wise idea to venture out onto the streets of Beacon Hills at this hour, especially considering the man-eating beasties currently stalking those very streets.

Yeah, Beacon Hills is still the equivalent of an actual Hellmouth. Or possibly that inter-dimensional rift from Torchwood. Either way, it sucks. Only the fact that Peter isn’t here—that he’s out-of-state with Cora—makes the suckage mildly tolerable. Stiles hates that bastard. Everybody hates that bastard.

Stiles is so tired, he’s practically falling over in the midst of all the Post-it notes and bestiaries, so he gives his dad a drowsy call and mumbles disjointedly about staying at Derek’s before literally collapsing on top of his papery nest and drifting off with his head pillowed on a grimoire.

He’s vaguely aware of Derek covering him with a blanket, but the next thing he knows, it’s dawn and the pale sunlight from the loft’s windows is gently urging his eyes open.

So he opens them, blearily and with every intention of shutting them immediately, but then he catches a faint scent of coffee in the air and glances at the couch at the end of the loft, where Derek is already up, hair sleep-mussed, cradling a steaming mug of coffee as he slowly sips from it. He’s shirtless, which is, uh, interesting—Stiles’s brain isn’t exactly online yet—but he’s also _relaxed_ like Stiles has never seen him, his right leg casually crossed over his left. He’s in sweatpants, and the soft, worn folds of fabric clinging to his thighs and his crotch make it abundantly clear that a) he’s going commando and b) he’s hung like a horse.

Stiles is abruptly, blindingly awake, a shocking spark of lust sizzling across his nerves, and hello, he’s got an erection, which is inconvenient because he’s surrounded by sleeping werewolves and one sleeping kitsune, but all he can think of is mouthing Derek’s dick through those sweatpants, wetting them with his tongue, drooling on them until they’re damp and Derek’s painfully hard, and then dragging them down and swallowing Derek’s thick, bobbing cock, choking himself on it because it feels so good, making sloppy, greedy sounds—

Eventually, Derek _looks_ at him, and Stiles jolts, eyes wide and caught and guilty, because he forgot that Derek could smell him, but he can blame it on a simple case of morning wood, can’t he? Teenagers get that, and he’s a teenager, and…

“The bathroom’s free,” Derek says dryly, which, praise be to god, Derek does apparently believe this is a normal morning wood issue. Stiles stands up awkwardly, ensures his baggy T-shirt is hiding his embarrassing—nay, humiliating—boner, and croaks, “Thanks.” He crab-walks to the bathroom, passing by Derek as he does, and tries desperately not to notice that Derek is ridiculously sexual when he’s sprawled lazily like that, all loose limbs and warm, touchable sensuality. Derek’s nipples are stiff, dark points in the coolness of the loft, and his pornographically perfect abs rise and fall with each breath.

Stiles stumbles into the bathroom and locks it and shoves a hand down his jeans without even bothering to unbutton them. He bites his other wrist to keep himself quiet, and wonders what the hell is happening, why he’s suddenly thinking of Derek like… that. Of course, he’s appreciated Derek’s hotness occasionally, but it was an academic pursuit, an abstract admiration, not this vivid, shuddering, ferocious heat.

When he finally unzips and jerks off, he can’t get Derek out of his mind, can’t picture anyone else, and Derek is _directly outside_ , probably doing his best to ignore the horny kid in his bathroom making stupid, breathy, bitten-off noises punctuated by the slick, slippery, audible rhythm of a fist flying over a leaking dick.

Rather than feeling ashamed of being heard, Stiles _flushes_ , from head to toe, so violently and completely that sweat springs out all over his skin. Wild, half-formed fantasies flash through his imagination, of Stiles showing Derek just how slutty he can be, just how rough he can take it, just how much he needs—

Fuck—

And Stiles is coming, in deep, wracking pulses, shooting into the toilet bowl and getting a bit of spunk on the seat. He curses and clumsily wipes it clean with a shred of toilet paper, still gasping and panting like he’s run a fucking marathon, his legs trembling, his knees as weak as a newborn foal’s.

He washes his hands and his face and steps out of the bathroom when he figures his blush is under control. He’s wrong, it’s not, because it flares up again the moment he sees Derek, still sitting there with his goddamn coffee, as though Stiles didn’t just whack off to thoughts of him. But Derek doesn’t say anything, staring into his coffee mug like it holds the secrets of the universe, and his body isn’t relaxed anymore. It’s strung tight with a weird tension, the line of his shoulders oddly rigid, and his sweatpants are—

Are they…?

They couldn’t be _tented_ , surely not, but before Stiles can gather the courage to edge closer and have a better look, Derek is moving off the couch with a speed that only a werewolf can manage, growling something unintelligible, slamming his mug onto the kitchen platform and striding into the bathroom as well, banging the door shut behind him.

And Stiles is—

Stiles is left standing there, gaping, as the rest of the people in the loft gradually start waking up. Scott resembles a confused puppy as he questions why the whole place smells like jizz, but Kira makes this urgent shushing motion and Scott brightens a little more and says, with an exaggerated sense of epiphany, “Oh, _right_.”

Stiles wants to ask him what that means.

If it means what he thinks it means.

If it means that Scott knew Stiles was attracted to Derek sooner than even Stiles did.

And if Scott knew that Derek was attracted to Stiles, too.

 _Is_ attracted to Stiles?

Maybe?

Stiles can’t bring himself to say that, however, instead retrieving his favorite grimoire and muttering about spells and potions and consulting with Deaton. Everyone contributes meaningful insights and takes turns going to the bathroom after Derek comes back out, and if any of the others can smell all that semen, they’re polite enough not to mention it.

Which is great, because the filthy daydreams Stiles is having aren’t fit for polite company, anyway.

He resolves to stay overnight at Derek’s loft again, when nobody else is around.

This time, in Derek’s bed.

 

* * *

**fin.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
